But when she turned to him to bask within his approval, she found his cheeks slightly reddening, his chest rising with a heavy breath and his lips pinching into a tight line. Now, English people can be hard to read, for they do believe that a firm face with no sentiment upon it is a virtue. But July was an expert in all their guiles and knew without hesitation that she had delivered this man the wrong answer. But for what reason, our July had yet to grasp.
When he at once said, ‘Really? You are friends,’ July was quick to respond, ‘Me not be that friendly since she has been within the town, for me does hardly see her. No, we not be such friends . . .’ but was sorely troubled when he interrupted to ask, ‘Do you attend her dances at the assembly rooms?’
Would a ‘yes’ or a ‘no’ secure this man’s favour? July was now confused. A ‘yes’ might hear him gladly say, ‘Then it would be my honour to accompany you next time, Miss July.’ For maybe he enjoyed to trip and spin within this company; white men from all across the parish did delight in attending those dances and he was a white man. And the truth within a ‘no’ would prove her an outcast—too dark and ugly for those fair occasions. Yet although July always feared telling the truth to a white person (for her fictions were often better understood), something within his manner—a furrow in his brow? his hand too tight upon the reins? his foot tapping upon the board? (she could not tell you what)—implored her to say, ‘No’.
What a breath July did exhale when he said, ‘I am so glad to hear it, Miss July.’ And when, with peevish disdain, he went on saying, ‘Those dances are not a place that a Christian person should attend,’ July all at once supposed she was beginning to understand this particular white man.
‘No,’ she said, ‘me prefer to rest at home.’ And then, in a moment of sweet inspiration added, ‘Me does like to stay home to read me Bible.’
His face lit with such clear delight that some in England might have thought him disloyal for letting such obvious pleasure glow upon it. ‘Your Bible. You enjoy to read the Bible, Miss July?’ he asked.
‘Oh yes,’ she carried on.
‘Do you have a favourite story from that good book?’
‘Yes,’ July said without hesitation. ‘Me like the story of how the whole world did be made best of all.’
In truth, there was no indecision within July for this was the only story she knew from that holy book. When Caroline Mortimer was teaching July her letters she at first used that big, heavy, dusty tome for July’s instruction. But the little print was so hard for July to read or construe, that the missus began to drift into dozing long before God rested from his labours upon the seventh day. Her missus then swapped the book from which July was to recite, for one where two silly sisters—white women who were required to do no work—did spend their days fretting and crying over the finding of husbands. The missus’s Bible was now used only for the wayward to place their hand upon it to swear they speak in truth (come, Molly did have to slap it so often she thought it a drum), but rarely did it open for stories to escape it.
‘Are there any other passages you enjoy?’ Robert Goodwin continued. July raised up her eyes, as if to ponder upon his question. ‘The story of the Good Samaritan, perhaps?’ he asked.
‘Oh yes, me like it very much,’ said July.
‘And what about Moses parting the Red Sea?’
‘That is a very good tale.’
‘Or perhaps the story of the three little pigs?’ he wondered.
‘Me does like them all,’ July told him. ‘But the resting ’pon the seventh day tale be me favoured.’ And he, glancing at her sideways, did grin so wide a smile upon her that she feared she may have amused him in some way.
So July decided she would speak no more unless he continued to press her. The beat of the pony’s hooves clopping upon the road and the rhythm within the squeaking and creaking wooden cart made a queer sort of music as they travelled. And although July was wishing to appear as demure as a white lady touring within a carriage as she sat with her hands resting together upon her lap, she was mightily aware that the overseer’s leg was pressing hard against her own. She could feel it tensing stiff as he held himself steady with the effort of guiding the cart and pony. Once a tricky movement was complete she felt the strong muscle of his thigh ease and relax. His jacket sleeves were rolled up about his elbows and exposed the tiny black hairs upon his bare forearms to quiver with the breeze of his motion; while his hands, gripping the reins, were held dainty as if leading a woman to dance. And July did sniff a sweet scent of wood-smoke drifting from him.
But as she craftily glanced upon his face and beheld his eyelashes—which were so dark and lush as to appear like a silk fringe upon his lids—she was at once aware that if she was noticing all about him, then would not he be slyly assessing her; the badly stitched tear in her ugly grey skirt, the tatty red kerchief upon her head hiding her picky-picky hair, her still-too-broad nose, her dull-brown eyes and, of course, her black skin? July became rigid with unease as the cart bumped upon the road and gently threw them together—sometimes her against him and sometimes him against her.
When the watchman’s stone hut at the gate of Amity appeared in the near distance, July longed to assure this white man, before they parted, that she was not a rough negro. No. She was a mulatto. Even though he may see her skin to be a shade too dusky, she wished him the comfort of knowing that she was not a nigger’s pickney, but a white man’s child. So she breached that silence she had so hard determined to keep by saying, ‘Massa, you ever been Scotch Land?’
‘Scotland?’ Robert Goodwin enquired with some puzzlement. ‘No, but I’ve heard it is very beautiful. But why do you ask?’
‘Me papa be from Scotch Land,’ July was pleased to be able to inform him.
‘Your father was a Scotch man?’
‘Oh yes, he be from Scotch Land.’
‘Your father was a white man?’
‘Oh yes. Me be a mulatto, not a negro.’
‘A mulatto?’
‘Yes, a mulatto. You must not think me a nigger, for me is a mulatto.’ July then waited to witness his esteem. She was sure it would be forthcoming. But the overseer’s expression did not exclaim joy at her salvation. Come, there were those reddening cheeks, that swelling chest and pinching lips once more. But why? July was truly bewildered.
‘Did your father know you, Miss July?’
And Tam Dewar was once more called upon to step up and take his part within July’s narration. ‘Oh yes.’ July said.
‘Was he good to you?’
‘Good to me, massa?’ July faltered, for she did not want to construct a tale of that devilish man’s goodness only for Robert Goodwin to frown it away.
‘Did he give you his name?’ the white man went on, ‘Did he see you were baptised? Were you schooled?’
July nearly threw up her arms to the heavens—she felt to scream, for this man was vexing her so. What fanciful fiction she would have to weave to please him—for surely no truth could help her win this young man’s favour. So she said, ‘Him say him would one day take me to Scotch Land. Him did say him would take me . . . one day,’ while all the while examining the young overseer’s face for distress. When he continued to merely listen and nod, she carried on, ‘Him did put me ’pon him knee and him did pinch me cheeks just so.’ And she demonstrated this pinching upon her own cheeks, pulling them wide to show her papa’s playfulness. ‘And me papa did say, “One day, me little cherish,”—for him did call me “me little cherish”—“me gon’ bring you to Scotch Land”.’
And the overseer’s face did soften a little . . . perhaps.
‘What was your father’s name?’
‘Me papa name be Mr Tam Dewar.’
‘Tam Dewar,’ the overseer repeated, ‘I know that name. Was he not the overseer at Amity once upon a time?’
‘Yes,’ July said. ‘Him was a fine overseer. Him be a kind-kind massa to all.’
‘Was Tam Dewar married to your mother, Miss July?’
<
br /> What sort of fool-fool question was this? Tell me, reader, did you ever, up to now, hear of an overseer upon a sugar plantation thinking to marry a slave he has befouled? A senseless liar would July be proved if she answered him, ‘Yes’. And a ‘No’ would surely see this man turn from her.
July all at once gave up the whole notion of charming this white man, for there was too much work to do within it. And what a foolish endeavour it was. She needed no glass to tell her that she was too dark and lowly a house servant for a man so fine English as Robert Goodwin to find beauty within her. So although July did not, with honesty, answer that her papa just bent her mama over several times to do his business, but that her mama did later kill him for it, there was some nimble truth-tripping within what she actually said. ‘Him pass on, massa. Jus’ as me papa was to take me mama, them both dead in the riots.’ Then, as the words left July’s mouth, she lifted her hands to her eyes. To stop her tears from flowing? No. This was just fancy feigning.
Now believing her to be crying, Robert Goodwin was suddenly concerned. ‘I am sorry,’ he said. ‘Have I upset you?’ he asked. ‘Forgive me,’ he demanded. Then, within a brief moment, he placed his hand tenderly upon July’s arm. And that touch did tingle upon her skin so.
Of course July fell against him as he helped her down from the cart, for she tripped her foot upon the board—it is easily done from a pony cart. And in his embrace to steady her, he held her solid and firm within his arms for a long moment. Their faces were so close that July took breath from the same air as he, while his clear blue eyes never strayed from hers.
‘Miss July,’ he said while releasing her, ‘I have a book on Scotland.’ He took a breath with which to continue, but faltered. His tongue licked to moisten his lips as he went on, ‘It was given to me as a gift.’ He glanced quickly about himself before saying with a hushed tone, ‘Perhaps you will allow me to show it to you one day?’ Then he stepped back away from July so quickly that some might consider that he jumped. And his face blushed pink as a boiled shrimp as he raised his hat to her in parting.
‘T’ank you, massa,’ July responded with a broad smile, ‘Me will.’
White muslin, July decided as he, calling for Byron to attend the pony, walked away. A white muslin dress would be her desire.
Robert Goodwin was resting within his hammock so peacefully that as July tip-toed up the steps of his veranda she motioned to two mockingbirds to hush their trilling song. They would not be stilled by her waving hand, nor by the small stone she aimed upon them within the bough of the orange tree. But their persistent carry-on was not troubling the overseer within his midday slumber. It was a week since July had last gazed on him and she stood over him a long while.
She had never before seen anyone, except perhaps a newborn, lying so tranquil upon this island. His dangling legs were splayed over each side of the hammock. His feet were bare; his tall leather boots standing patient and purposeful at the side. The white shirt he wore was untied at the neck to reveal the shy black hair upon his chest curling out from beneath the cloth. One arm was crooked under his sleeping head, while the other was thrown across his forehead with dramatic gesture. Long and straight was his nose. Thin and wide was his mouth. And so still was he in repose that, excepting for the faintest drone of a snore that hummed from him, he could have been dead.
His greedy-eyed house boy, Elias, had pushed out his bottom lip in a sulk when disclosing to July that Robert Goodwin always slept upon his veranda in the heat of midday. For the overseer had requested the house boy to keep his quiet ritual a secret, lest any negroes knowing him confined thought to hound him with more dispute over their rent or wages. But by turning Elias’s ear until it felt to be tearing from his head, July had eased this secret from the house boy—for she required the overseer to be alone when she came to view his book.
Was it those clamorous mockingbirds or the intensity of the gaze with which July beheld Robert Goodwin that roused one of his eyes to open slowly to peruse the sensed intrusion upon his rest? Finding July standing over him, he nearly spilled from the hammock in his effort to be upright. Of course he was surprised—for not only was July peering upon him with a comely smile, but she was looking so fine. Her kerchief was not ugly, but her best blue. And her dress—a missus cast-off—was tucked and stitched and trimmed until the pink, blue, green, and mauve flowers upon the cotton cloth of the skirt, the puffing of the sleeves and the white of the cape collar arranged themselves so pleasingly about her, as to present to him a vision of a rare exotic beauty.
He stood up, hurriedly tucking his shirt into his breeches. ‘Miss July, have you a message for me?’ He ran his hands through his untidy hair, clearly worried that sleep had left it not looking at its best—which was true, for several tufts sprung like bristle from it.
‘No, massa,’ July said, ‘me come to see the book.’
Still dazed as a small boy roused before sunrise, he asked, ‘The book?’
‘With picture of Scotch Land?’ July reminded him.
‘Of course, of course,’ he said. ‘Forgive me. The mockingbirds—there are two in that tree—they were singing so beautifully I just fell asleep for a moment.’
‘Yes—them does surely like to sing,’ July said. While he, as if perceiving her for the first time, passed one long gaze over her—from the tip of her unclothed toes to the top of her well-dressed head. Then he managed to repeat the words, ‘The book,’ before all his breath and most of his sense left him.
At once he began looking around himself as if searching for someone to rescue him. So awkward did he become that he could no longer regard July’s face, and speak. As his mouth opened to say, ‘Are you . . . are you . . . ?’ he examined his bare feet. As he attempted to begin once more, with a little more clarity, ‘Miss July, are you . . . ?’ he sought to catch sight of the mockingbirds within the tree. And as he gulped to say finally, ‘Are you alone?’ it was his wringing hands that held his attention. When July answered with a gay, ‘Yes’, come, the man nearly swooned.
Suddenly he turned to walk into the house saying, ‘I have it somewhere in here. It may take me a little while to . . .’ before turning to gaze once more upon July. His barefoot stride continued only after he bit his lip to summon his fortitude.
July followed him through that door, very close behind.
‘You have plenty book on Scotch Land, massa?’ she asked as she strolled around his small withdrawing room. She stopped to look upon a side cupboard on which rested a draggletailed posy of pink periwinkles within a blue vase. And by its side was a miniature portrait within a metal frame, no bigger than a missus locket that was worn about the neck. The picture showed a severe-looking white man with bushy whiskers staring back upon her. July leaned in close to view the fine details—there was a cross at his neck and a ring upon his hand, but she saw no more for she straightened again when the overseer said, ‘No, I just have this one. It was given to me by my last employer. I do not now recall why. But it has pictures of that country. Scotland. Ahh, here it is.’
He took the book from the bookcase with very slow care—inching it out only a little piece at a time. July soon realised that he was fretting that a suddenly awakened cockroach might fall from it. She held her hand to her mouth so he did not witness her amusement. ‘Yes, this is the one,’ he said. And he took the book over to his desk to lay it out upon it.
‘Do you know where your father was from?’ he enquired.
‘Me father?’ July asked as she walked across the room to stand so very close behind him.
‘Yes, you said your father was a Scotch man.’
‘Oh, me papa,’ July said. She could see her breath fluttering the curling black hair at the back of his neck as she spoke those puffing words.
‘Yes, your papa.’
‘Yes, me papa be a Scotch man.’
‘Well, let us see what we have in here,’ he said.
He flicked quickly through the book and as July leaned in closer to look over his shou
lder her breast, by chance, pressed against his arm. For a brief moment he stalled in his browsing but then carried on. He stopped at a drawing of a castle.
July, moving closer, squeezed her body up against his as she pointed at the picture saying, ‘Be that where me papa live?’
His voice stammered as he responded, ‘I . . . I . . . I doubt it as that is a castle.’
The little laugh he gave to follow these words rubbed her further against him. ‘There are many castles in Scotland, but I doubt that any are home to overseers from the West Indies.’ And as he turned to look at her, his lips nearly stroked her cheek.
He immediately began to rifle through the pages again in a businesslike manner. Most of this book was not pictures but dense black printed words. But there came a sketch of a small house with some sheep about it. ‘This is probably more the thing,’ Robert said, lifting the book a little so July might see it more clearly. July ran a finger along the roof and up over the chimney saying, ‘This be me papa house?’
‘Well, not actually this house . . . but . . . but,’ Robert was now staring intently upon July as she perused the picture.
‘And what be these?’ she asked, pointing at the sheep.
‘They are sheep,’ he said.
And July, who did not know these woolly creatures, turned her face full on to his to ask, ‘What be sheep?’
The book dropped back on to the table with a thump. The overseer’s hands could no longer hold it, for they were shaking and limp. Like a rushing wind July felt his breath coming faster and quicker as he clasped her with a ferocity like anger. He was kissing her upon the mouth before she realised. His wet and loose tongue licked her like he was gorging upon greasy chicken.
July was overjoyed. Miss Clara, Miss Clara, boil up some water, for Miss July Goodwin is coming to take tea! The swelling of his private part began pressing hard upon July, and she knew that what she must do now was lead this tender young white man around by it.